No Friend To Haunting Whispers

Within this every now we know as life: a singlet, without gravity of purpose, provides a modicum of lack. An only ear we listen to that cannot hear us back. In that instant, sound will echo a fleeting distant cry, a tremble slight that might at times come try, press our thought, engage in whisper, and speak to no one there: I too have heard so clear the pain a poet’s heart must bear; to love and so embrace it all as if thou were the air.